


Sharing

by nightrose



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bondage, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Face Slapping, Gangbang, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 20:32:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1524599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightrose/pseuds/nightrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras offers Grantaire's services to his friends at a meeting. </p><p>Repost from the kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharing

**Author's Note:**

> It's pretty difficult to think of a title and summary for a fic in which all that happens is Grantaire sucks a bunch of dicks. But that's pretty much it. 7000 words of cocksucking.

Enjolras is standing at the front of the room, talking about something or other. Frankly, Grantaire isn’t paying any attention. He’s on his knees at Enjolras’ feet, a spot he’s been taking on more and more recently. They’d been tentative about it at first, but now Grantaire spends almost every meeting like this, kneeling between Enjolras’ legs with his dom gently stroking his hair as he talks. Enjolras insists that it’s helpful—it keeps him grounded, keeps some gentleness in him.

“Bahorel? Is there something on your mind?” Enjolras says, somewhat snippily. “You seem a bit distracted.”

“Sorry. He’s fuckin’ distracting, on his knees.”

“Everyone else seems to be able to control themselves.”

Now Grantaire is paying attention, because everyone’s eyes are on him, and Combeferre (Combeferre, of all people) is saying, “Actually, I’m having a bit of trouble focusing.”

“It’s not really fair,” Courfeyrac adds. “You may be unfazed, Enjolras, but that’s because you can have him whenever you want.”

Grantaire swallows, looking up at Enjolras. They’d talked about this, more than once. Grantaire had thought it would stay a fantasy, though he’d given Enjolras permission to tell the others about it—about his desire to service the Amis during a meeting, of his urge to be useful in this base and filthy way.

Enjolras smiles down at him, a confirmation of what he’s thinking—Enjolras had negotiated this with the others while Grantaire was running late this afternoon, and now he wants to offer Grantaire’s services to their friends.

“Yes,” Grantaire mouths up at him, smiling back, and Enjolras grabs his hair, forcing him to face down in a sudden rough gesture. 

“Well, slut, if you’re too much of a distraction, you’re just going to have to take care of them,” he orders. 

Grantaire nods. 

Enjolras turns to the rest of the Amis. “I expect you all to pay attention if I’m going to share my fucktoy. I have some very important points to make.”

“What are the rules?” Courfeyrac asks, and it’s clear from his tone that Enjolras has already discussed this with them, that he’s asking so Grantaire will be aware of the limits.

“You can have his mouth or his hands. Nothing else. Come on his face or make him swallow. Choking, slapping, all fine, but you should keep whatever you want to say to him quiet. His safeword is red.” Enjolras gently cups the back of his neck, a weight on top of Grantaire’s collar. “Anything to add, R?”

“Um, I don’t want anyone to interrupt or distract Enjolras, of course, but I do like- talking. You can call me whatever you want.”

“All right. Who wants it first?” Enjolras asks. “Bahorel?”

“Yeah,” Bahorel agrees, palming himself already through his trousers, and Enjolras pushes at the back of Grantaire’s neck to send him crawling towards their friend. 

“Take off your clothes,” Bahorel orders, because he’s a man of simple tastes and he likes to see a lovely, bare body almost as much as he likes to feel a warm mouth around himself.

Grantaire strips, rising just as much as he absolutely needs to take off all his clothes. On his way over, he passes Courfeyrac, who reaches out a hand and just brushes it across his shoulders. It’s casual and very intimate at the same time, this unquestioned touching like his friend has every right to just reach out and make contact with his body. 

And he does, because Enjolras has given it to him. Enjolras has given him, given all of them, the right to use Grantaire however they may choose.

Grantaire whimpers at the thought, and then he’s at Bahorel’s feet. His friend grins down at him, taking a rough handful of his curls and shoving Grantaire’s face roughly into his crotch.

Obediently, Grantaire starts to suck at the bulge in Bahorel’s pants, feeling the shape of his cock through the fabric. He’s big, thicker and longer than Enjolras, bigger than anything Grantaire’s had for a while.

The fabric of Bahorel’s trousers is thick and rough under Grantaire’s tongue, but he keeps licking obediently until Bahorel pushes his head away with a careless hand to undo the fastenings. Grantaire reaches up to help and Bahorel hisses to him “Did I say you could use your hands?”

“No, sir,” Grantaire answers softly.

“Mouth only. Like the animal you are. I don’t want your filthy fingers on me.”

Grantaire whimpers and nods. “I’m sorry.”

Bahorel grabs his curls again, forcing his head onto his now-bare cock. Grantaire would, of course, have gone willingly, but his friend’s roughness is more than appreciated.

Bahorel pushes him down in one long, smooth shove, giving Grantaire no choice but to try and relax as his cock fills his mouth and intrudes into his throat. He gags a little at that, but Bahorel doesn’t relent, just pausing in place for a second while Grantaire gets himself under control, and then pushes him the rest of the way down.

It’s good. He sees why Enjolras wanted Bahorel to have him first, because there’s no anxiety in this. There’s no wondering what Bahorel would want—the other man is giving Grantaire no choice but to take his cock into his throat.

He pushes Grantaire up and down a few times, ignoring the choked whimpers Grantaire can’t help but give, and then shoves his face back down, til his lips are flush against Bahorel’s skin and his nose pressed into Bahorel’s stomach.

Bahorel makes him stay there for a long moment, while he tries desperately to breathe through his nose. He’s choking on the cock in his throat, and he can’t do anything about it, he’s helpless and used and Enjolras is talking.

Enjolras is talking about something else.

That’s why Bahorel has stopped moving, because Enjolras is addressing him, saying something about how Bahorel should speak to his contact at such and such a group, and Bahorel is listening to him as intently as usual. Enjolras’ voice is calm (or as calm as it ever is, if he’s agitated at all it’s because they’re speaking of the revolution) as if he isn’t even aware of Grantaire’s presence in the room, as if the man he’s currently speaking to about the logistics of revolutionary planning doesn’t have his cock halfway down his own lover’s throat.

Then Enjolras is addressing someone else, and Bahorel’s attention is back to Grantaire. He moves Grantaire’s face, pushing his mouth up and down, as Grantaire tries to suck, tries to please, and enjoys the feeling of the cock pushing into his throat at intervals.

The hands in his hair are brutally tight, and that with the intermitent choking brings tears to his eyes. They don’t fall, not yet, but Grantaire relishes the certainty that his friends are going to make him cry. 

Bahorel comes quickly enough, pulling away so that some can dribble out of Grantaire’s mouth, forcing him to taste it and to wear a little on his chin. He doesn’t dare try to wipe it away. 

“Who wants it next?” Bahorel says, tugging sharply at Grantaire’s hair so he’s forced to turn and face the crowd.

“Me,” Feuilly volunteers, hooking his fingers in Grantaire’s collar to pull him close.

Grantaire shuffles over to him, on his knees without the use of his hands. When he’s at Feuilly’s feet, his friend smiles, stroking his fingers through the come on Grantaire’s face. Then he gently slips his calloused fingers into Grantaire’s mouth, making him lick the come off. He leaves his fingers in place long after they’re clean, and he’s looking over at Enjolras, engaged in the conversation, and completely ignoring Grantaire who’s sucking at his fingers.

Grantaire lets out an unnecessarily loud moan, trying to get his attention, and Feuilly ignores him, shoving his fingers in deeper to gag him. 

Feuilly’s foot is on Grantaire’s thigh, a heavy weight pinning him in place. “Give me your hands,” Feuilly orders after a few minutes, and Grantaire offers them up. Feuilly pulls his fingers free from Grantaire’s mouth, taking his cravat off and using it to bind Grantaire’s wrists together. Only when his hands are firmly secured does Feuilly finally undo his pants and hold out his cock.

Grantaire looks up at him tentatively, and Feuilly smiles a little bit. “I like it soft,” he says, his hand cupping Grantaire’s jaw. “Lots of tongue. You can start by just licking.”

“Yes, sir,” Grantaire answers, leaning closer. He touches his tongue to the tip of Feuilly’s cock, slowly circling the head, and Feuilly’s hand tightens around his jaw, a spasm of pleasure.

He’s silent, unlike Bahorel, and doesn’t move Grantaire, just keeps that steady hand on him as Grantaire’s tongue moves on his cock. His hand is warm and strong, his rough calluses brushing against Grantaire’s sensitive skin as Grantaire works.

He takes on a rhythm quickly. It’s slower and softer than what he’s used to, but Feuilly’s grip on his chin loosens til he’s just an encouraging weight. His cock is practically dripping in Grantaire’s mouth, much more precome than he’s used to, and Grantaire licks it away, curling his tongue around the tip of Feuilly’s cock.

He alternates movements, sucking gently, then pulling away to lap cat-like at the sides. Then Grantaire works his tongue in circles around the head, and then goes back to sucking.

Feuilly’s thighs are trembling by now. He’s still silent, but his fingers are tightening in their grip around Grantaire’s jaw, and his legs are shaking.

It’s incredibly hot, to see the effect that his work is having. There’s a deep satisfaction in this, in figuring out what his friend likes, how to please him, how to get him off.

Grantaire’s jaw is starting to really throb as he swallows Feuilly down again, keeping up the pattern of licking and circling, licking and circling. He sucks one more time, hard, and Feuilly lets out a low groan. 

That’s all the warning Grantaire gets before his mouth is being flooded with come again, salty and bitter.

“Don’t swallow,” Feuilly orders, the first thing he’s said to Grantaire in the long while that he’s been on his knees. 

Grantaire keeps the come in his mouth, not sure what Feuilly wants, and realizes only when his friend’s fingers dive deep into his mouth, pulling a little bit out to smear Grantaire’s lips. He pushes his fingers in and out again, like he did at the beginning, except now he’s coating Grantaire’s lips and face with streaks of come. 

“You want to be allowed to swallow the rest?” Feuilly asks, his voice low.

Grantaire nods, his mouth still half-full.

“All right. Since you asked so nicely,” Feuilly says, grinning, and Grantaire swallows. When his tongue darts out to lick his lips, though, Feuilly stops him. “I want you to wear my come. Show everyone what a little slut you are.”

“I think we know,” Joly laughs.

“Quiet!” Enjolras snaps at them, in that tone of voice that always sends shivers down Grantaire’s spine. “Don’t let the whore distract you. We have important business to take care of.”

“Sorry,” Joly says apologetically, and Enjolras spares just one glance over at Grantaire, one second’s worth of a smile, before starting to speak again about education as Courfeyrac beckons Grantaire over. 

Courfeyrac grabs him roughly by the collar as soon as he’s within reach and fiercely tugs him over. Grantaire scrambles to get himself in place, barely able to keep up with Courfeyrac’s movement. 

Courfeyrac doesn’t play with him at all first, just undoes his pants and shoves Grantaire down.

“Slut,” he says, pitching his voice low so that Grantaire can hear him but he won’t disturb him. Grantaire is already sputtering around his cock. Courfeyrac is the biggest out of all of them so far, and it’s hard to take, and Courfeyrac is giving him absolutely no ground. 

He has no control over the blowjob. Courfeyrac has one hand tangled in his hair and the other one through the front of Grantaire’s collar, so he can’t move except where Courfeyrac is moving him.

Courfeyrac is vocal, letting out quiet little grunts as he thrusts his hips up, over and over again, into Grantaire’s mouth. 

“Like this?” Courfeyrac asks, tugging at Grantaire’s hair sharply, and Grantaire lets out a needy little whimper of agreement. Courfeyrac laughs a little bit. “Is the little whore enjoying being passed around like this?”

Grantaire tries to shake his head, though he can’t really move very much. 

“Of course you are,” Courfeyrac laughs. His voice is light and cheerful, his usual self, as he thrusts into Grantaire’s mouth brutally, making him sputter and choke.

Grantaire is barely able to keep himself up on his knees. He’s losing his balance, his hands still bound together so he can’t keep himself in place. The only things anchoring him are Courfeyrac’s hands on either side of his head and Courfeyrac’s cock shoving deeper and deeper into his throat.

He’s falling into subspace, tumbling under. He doesn’t know where he is, or why. All he can think of is the cock in his throat, his place, his purpose, his service. He’s nothing except this, except his mouth, except a hole that’s being thoroughly made use of. 

Courfeyrac is touching him, bracing him, keeping him in place. He can just hear Enjolras’ voice. He doesn’t know what his master is saying, not through the deep fog he’s in, his mind at once blurry and hyper-focused on how badly he wants to serve. He can’t understand what Enjolras is saying, and it’s probably nothing about him, anyway, because Grantaire is so far beneath his notice. His cock twitches at the thought, still untouched, and he’s so far gone that he tries to reach for it, to touch himself even though he doesn’t have permission, but fortunately his hands are bound fast behind his back and that reminds him of his place, reminds him that he’s here to give pleasure, not to get it.

Courfeyrac thrusts hard into his mouth, and Grantaire gags, looking up to see the grin on his friend’s face as he repeats the action. He’s taken on a rhythm now, fucking Grantaire’s mouth properly.

“Look at me,” Courfeyrac orders, and Grantaire tries to, meeting his friend’s warm gaze. Courfeyrac is smiling, his friendly, open smile, as he chokes Grantaire on his cock. Courfeyrac might be on the toppy side, but he will always, fundamentally, be the kind of person who wants to make others happy. So as he looks down at Grantaire, teary-eyed from gagging and his red lips stretched around Courfeyrac, he murmurs, “You’re a good boy. Enjolras is very lucky to have you.”

Grantaire lets out a whimper at the praise, trying to thank Courfeyrac with a slow flick of his tongue, though it’s hard because his mouth is so full. He settles for relaxing his throat and letting Courfeyrac fuck into him.

Courfeyrac comes without any warning, right down his throat, his hands tightening in Grantaire’s hair the only sign Grantaire gets before he’s swallowing salty come. 

Courfeyrac pets his hair for a little bit, easing him down—but it just takes Grantaire further into whatever subspace he’s in, lost and wanting and needy and at peace in some way he only is when he’s being dominated like this, when he’s being good for Enjolras. Although right now there are other people too, but ultimatley he’s doing it because Enjolras told him to, and that’s perfect. It’s perfect because he’s proving how good he can be, he’s showing everyone, and he’s got orders to follow and he knows where he belongs. 

After a while, Joly and Bossuet tug him over, positioning him on his knees in between the two of them. They untie his hands, guiding one to each of their erections. 

Grantaire barely knows what’s happening. His head is spinning and he’s so hard and the only thing that feels real is them guiding him.

He feels so grateful for it, for the way they move his hands to them, the way one of them is holding his head up, petting his sweaty curls, as he strokes them off.

Joly—he thinks it’s Joly, though his eyes are closed in bliss and need and he isn’t sure—rubs the head of his cock against Grantaire’s cheek, leaving a long stroke of precome on his face. He lets the tip just slightly slide against Grantaire’s lips, lets Grantaire open his mouth, searching, wanting, then takes Grantaire’s hand again, guiding it back to his cock, not letting him suck it.

Grantaire wants it. He wants those cocks in his mouth, not just in his hands, wants both of them at once. His mouth is watering for it, imagining what it would be like, the two of them thrusting in and out in turn so there would always be a cock pushing into his throat, them stretching his mouth til it hurt.

“Please,” he whispers, turning his head in the direction of one of them. He looks up—it’s Bossuet—pleadingly.

“What do you want, R?”

“Let me suck you off. Please. Please,” he says, desperate.

Bossuet smiles, taking himself in hand. Just as Joly had done earlier, he presses the tip to Grantaire’s lips, then pulls away, leaving another streak of precome across Feuilly’s come still on Grantaire’s chin.

“I don’t think so,” he murmurs.

“Please, I promise it’ll be good—“

“I’m sure,” Joly says. “Everyone else seems very satisfied with your work. But I think we’d rather see you desperate for it.” 

Grantaire nods slowly at that and goes back to the work of stroking them off, long, slow, even strokes. Every so often one of them will pause and tease him with their cocks, tracing it across his face, letting him get just a single taste before pulling away and laughing. 

It goes on for a while. Grantaire isn’t sure how long. They might keep tormenting him forever, except that Combeferre says dryly, “You too are certainly taking your time. I think some of us might like our turn.”

“Sorry, ‘Ferre,” Joly says. “We’ll let you have him in just a minute.”

Grantaire nods eagerly, opening his mouth in expectation. Bossuet laughs and lets Grantaire have a few of his long, thin fingers to suck on while he continues stroking them both of. 

As promised, it isn’t long after that when first Joly and then Bossuet are groaning and streaking his face with warm come. Grantaire whimpers as he feels it land on him, feeling the humiliation of being marked and the pleasure of knowing he’s done well all at once. 

Grantaire is completely lost by the time Jehan pulls him over. Enjolras isn’t talking anymore, giving Jehan free reign to speak.

“You look lovely, R,” he begins, his voice sweet and gentle. “In fact, you look just perfect, here on your knees. Perhaps it’s because this is where you belong. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, but you are a good boy. You do so want to please us, don’t you?”

“So much. I want that so badly.”

“And why is that?”

“Because it’s hot,” Grantaire says, and Jehan laughs a little, gently.

“No, I don’t think that’s true. At least, not completely. I think what you’re getting off on is being useful, isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Grantaire confesses, his eyes shut as Jehan trails his fingers across his face, touching his eyelids, his nose, his cheeks.

“You were built for this. The perfect face to come all over. The perfect mouth to please us all. A natural-born whore.”

“Fuck,” Grantaire whispers, involuntarily, and Jehan laughs again.

“Something you want, then?”

“Your cock, I want, please,” Grantaire begs, shameless and incoherent at once. 

“Hmm. I do hate to keep poor Combeferre waiting any longer than necessary. As he hasn’t had his turn yet. But then again, I think we’ve been plenty indulgent with you already, you filthy slut, and it doesn’t seem right to keep spoiling you rotten by letting you have all the cock you want. Why, if we aren’t careful, you could end up crawling back to your master believing you deserve to be used, and we can’t have that.”

“Please,” Grantaire says. “I need it, I need to please you, fuck, Jehan, please-“

“Very well. If you’re that desperate.”

Jehan pulls his hard cock out from his trousers, and Grantaire sets to work with the most enthusiasm he can. Something about being spoken to that way, like he’s an object not even good enough to be used and abused, turns him on so much that he’s suddenly aching to be touched, suddenly almost eager to have gotten them all off and to be allowed to come himself because it turns him on so much to be spoken to that way.

It wouldn’t, not unless it was one of his friends. He knows, though, that Jehan doesn’t think any such thing of him, that Jehan respects him and cares for him and enjoys his company, and that just makes it even hotter that his dear friend is willing to let him do this, let Grantaire suck his cock and call him a filthy whore for even wanting to.

Jehan is saying shit again, saying how Grantaire will never be anything more than this, the proof is in how good he is, how sweet and warm and perfect his mouth is, it means he’s destined to be nothing but a slut, nothing but a hole, and Grantaire focuses on it, lets every word sink down into him in that perfect way that makes his body tense with want.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, loses track of how many different ways he’s been told he’s an object worthless except for being fucked. His lips and jaw aren’t just aching now, they’re actively painful, and his lungs are burning with the persistent lack of air, and his cock is throbbing untouched and needy, and it’s the best he’s ever felt. The deeper he goes into subspace, the better and better each of those painful sensations becomes, until each bit of discomfort is turning into the knowledge that he’s suffering this to serve his friends, that, as Jehan is saying above him, he’ll do anything to please, take any pain, any humiliation, because this is what he’s made for. 

Jehan is getting close when suddenly he fists his hand in Grantaire’s hair and forces his mouth away. 

“Do you want to taste it, whore?” he asks.

“Yes, please.”

“Hmm.” Jehan smiles down at him, sweet and coy. “I think I’ll make you earn it. Say you don’t deserve to suck my cock.”

“I know I don’t,” Grantaire says, not completely sure whether he genuinely believes it or is just playing into the game. Either way, though, it’s hot enough to send a shiver of desire down his spine. It doesn’t go unnoticed. Jehan is grinning at him, alternately stroking gentle fingers through his curls and viciously tugging them, hard enough to make tears spring to Grantaire’s eyes. 

“Are you enjoying being hurt?”

“Yes.”

Jehan smiles at him. “And what about having your mouth stuffed with cock and used like a toy? Are you enjoying that?”

“So much. I love it.”

“Don’t you feel ashamed at all?”

“Yes,” Grantaire says, “but it’s—it’s good. I’m getting off on it. The humiliation. The feeling of being this.” 

“Why? Why would you enjoy being slapped around and humiliated like this?”

Grantaire looks up at him, searching his face for the answer he wants.

Jehan laughs and volunteers it. “Is it perhaps because you’re a disgusting, filthy slut?”

“Fuck,” Grantaire says, half under his breath, and then, “Yes, I am, I’m so filthy I don’t deserve to have your cock in my mouth but I still need it. Please, sir-“

“Oh, very well,” Jehan says, although it’s a terrible inconvenience. “If you need it so badly, I guess I’ll allow you to dirty up my cock with your worthless mouth.”

“Thank you,” Grantaire replies, turned on almost to the point of not being able to get the words out. 

“Very polite,” Jehan praises, gently, and then tangles his hand sharply in Grantaire’s hair and forces his mouth down again. 

It doesn’t take long. In fact, it’s a shock to both of them when Jehan grunts and thrusts forward with none of the gentle control he’d 

Grantaire sputters and chokes as Jehan comes in his mouth. He must have been quite close. Maybe he enjoyed the filthy talk as much as Grantaire did. 

This time, though, they don’t make him beg for it. He doesn’t get He doesn’t get much time to adjust at all, but he certainly isn’t left wanting. It’s seconds after he’s choking on Jehan’s come that he’s being pulled over to Combeferre, the last of them. 

Combeferre pulls him by his hair, viciously, Grantaire scrambling after to try and cut down on the pain. That doesn’t seem to be possible, though, as soon as he’s on his knees in front of Combeferre he’s greeted with a harsh slap across the face. 

“Look at me, whore,” Combeferre orders, his voice rough.

Grantaire does as he’s told. He’s not sure, at this point, whether he’s capable of doing anything else.

“They’ve been easy on you. I won’t be.”

“Sir?”

Combeferre slaps him again, harder this time. “You’re not to speak to me. You’re not to make a single sound. Your mouth is for sucking cock, not for speaking.” 

Grantaire nods.

“Good. You’re learning, faster than I’d expect from a stupid slut. I’m going to be kind enough to explain what will happen to you, as I can see you’re eager to please- even if you’re clearly too useless to do it properly. I’m going to slap your face and pinch your nipples and hurt you, hurt you so badly you won’t be able to move it. If you’re a good little hole and you stay nice and still and silent while I make you cry, you’ll be allowed to suck my cock. If not, you go over my lap for twenty strokes of my belt, and then we try again. Is that clear?”

Grantaire nods again, swallowing hard. He likes pain—in mild doses. But he’s deeper in subspace at this moment than he’s ever been before, and he can take it. He knows he can take whatever’s asked of him.

“What’s your safeword?”

“Red,” Grantaire answers. “Sir.”

“Good. You’re to use it if you don’t want this any more. I’m only interested in hurting sluts so filthy that they ache to be hurt.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good slave. Now, you be silent and still and take your pain.” Without further commentary, Combeferre grinds his booted down hard against Grantaire’s naked thigh. The pain is shocking in its intensity, and Grantaire has to physically bite his lip to stop a pained whimper from escaping. 

Then Combeferre kicks him, hard, in the stomach. The strike is precise—some dim part of Grantaire’s mind registers that he must be focusing on some safe area for such a hard blow. Then another kick comes, and another, and all he can think about is when he’ll be able to get a breath.

The kicking doesn’t hurt all that much more than a slap might, but it’s so much more humiliating, to be kneeling on the floor, kicked like a disobedient dog. 

Then Combeferre’s hand tangles in his hair, forcing him up off his knees and into an awkward crouch—a better angle for Combeferre to reach down and slap his face, again and again and again, until he’s seeing stars and the skin of his cheek is burning. 

He drags his fingers across Grantaire’s chest, leaving raised marks, and then slaps him again. Pinches a nipple, and then slaps him. Kicks him, hard, in the sensitive skin of his exposed inner thigh, nearly knocking him off-balance, and then slaps him again. The rhythm becomes almost soothing, and then it stops for a long second.

Combeferre reaches down, twisting one of his nipples viciously, at the same time as his other hand pulls Grantaire’s hair back, making him look up at Combeferre, and he starts to cry.

Combeferre releases him instantly, letting him slump back onto the floor.

“Good. You can have my cock now, worthless.”

It’s hardly the poetic humiliation Jehan had treated him to, but Grantaire’s delighted nonetheless to hear the words. He takes Combeferre’s cock deep into his throat, sucking eagerly, as Combeferre goes back to hurting him.

There’s less he can do, obviously, as Grantaire works his mouth on Combeferre’s cock. He’s clearly creative, though. He pinches Grantaire’s nipples and pulls his hair, but also presses his clever doctor’s fingers into all sorts of sensitive places. He tugs and flicks Grantaire’s ears, and then presses his finger deliberately and carefully under Grantaire’s jaw, finding a pressure point that makes him gasp. 

As Combeferre gets closer, though, his methods get less refined. It’s just a rough hand tugging Grantaire’s hair almost to the point of pulling it out, and Combeferre’s boots digging agonizingly into his bare thighs. 

Grantaire is crying the whole way through. He was already overwhelmed and in pain when he got to Combeferre’s feet, and now he’s so far past the point of trying to hide his reactions. Besides, Combeferre seems to be getting off on it- at least, he’s clearly determined to hurt Grantaire the entire way through receiving his blowjob. He doesn’t fuck Grantaire’s mouth, just hurts him with his hands and his boots as Grantaire works. Combeferre hardly makes a sound as he comes, but Grantaire feels his cock jerk in his mouth, tastes the saltiness of his come, and knows, with an elemental satisfaction, that he’s done his job well. 

Combeferre kicks him away when he’s finished with him, one last gesture of brutality, and Grantaire is left driftless for a second until he hears Enjolras’ voice.

“Crawl to my feet,” he says, calm and composed, and it’s so easy and natural for Grantaire to do as he’s told, to end up on the ground with his face inches from Enjolras’ boots, and from there it seems simple to bend down and kiss the toe of his left boot, then his right boot, then the ground between his feet. “Good.”

“Thank you, Master,” Grantaire says, his voice rough from having his throat fucked. 

“I think you’ve pleased my friends well. But you need to be reminded who you belong to, isn’t that right?”

“I’d never forget I’m yours,” Grantaire says. “But I would be honored if you would claim me.”

“You’d like it if I laid my claim on you in front of everyone?”

“Please.”

“What if I were to let you climb into my lap and ride my cock? You’d have to face everyone while you did it, so they could see the pretty, desperate little faces you make for me. Would you like that?”

“Please,” Grantaire begs again, not able to think of a single other word than that. 

“I’m going to make you cry. Everyone is going to see how easy you go down for me. As much of a whore as you’ve already been today, they’re going to see how much filthier you’re willing to get for me, how you’ll cry to be allowed to have my cock, how badly you want to be used and thrown back on the ground when you’re gone.”

“That’s what I want. Please.”

“All right.” Enjolras withdraws a packet of lube from his pocket and tosses it, without a glance, down at Grantaire. “I have a few more things to say about next week’s meeting. You can shove your fingers in your slutty little hole and spread yourself out so I can use you, since I have more important things to do than get you ready to be fucked.”

Grantaire groans, and Enjolras reaches up with one of his boots, putting the weight of it at the top of Grantaire’s back, just below his neck, so he has to press his face against the floor. Enjolras keeps his boot there, letting Grantaire feel it, feel himself being pushed to the ground beneath his master’s feet, as he reaches for the packet of lube and spreads it out across his fingers. 

It’s an awkward angle to finger himself at, pushed face-down and ass up into the floor, unable to see because Enjolras is kicking him down, but Grantaire is too far gone to care. It’s just another challenge. Another way for him to serve. To suffer for the pleasure of others.

Of Enjolras. 

This is where he belongs. On the floor, on his knees, his mouth sore and used, his face covered in come and slap marks, his fingers pressing roughly into himself. Making himself a fucktoy, because that’s what he is.

Enjolras is talking again. Talking about something. It’s probably important, but Grantaire doesn’t have to listen. Doesn’t have to argue, or worry, or do anything but this. There’s nothing he can do except start twisting his two fingers inside himself and enjoy the weight of Enjolras’ boot on him and know that he’s in his place. 

He can pick out a few words, though. Words like “freedom,” and “equality,” and “the inherent dignity of man,” beautiful in Enjolras’ perfect mouth as he digs his heel into Grantaire’s back.

Grantaire is there on the floor for a while, fingering himself open thoroughly, trying to avoid his prostate so he doesn’t get any harder than he already is—if that were possible. He loses track of how long, but it feels like a while, enough that he’s very conscious of how sore his knees are. Eventually, Enjolras removes his boot. 

“Up,” he orders, undoing his pants just enough that his cock is exposed. That—him being clothed while Grantaire is naked—is just another welcome reminder of how owned Grantaire is. 

Enjolras takes a firm hold of Grantaire, guiding him down to sit, straddling Enjolras’ narrower hips, pushing him down, down, down until he’s fully seated on Enjolras’ cock. 

He gets a moment to adjust, then, groaning at the pleasurable fullness, and then starts to slightly rock up, bracing his feet against the floor to allow himself to move. He looks down, embarassed at the weight of the stares on him, but Enjolras fists his hair, forces him to look up.

“Watch them watch you,” he orders. “I let them have you, but you’re mine. You’ll always be mine. The only cock you need is mine. Show them all. Show them you’re my own boy.”

Grantaire is gasping, letting out little keening moans as he rocks back and forth on Enjolras’ cock. Enjolras bites savagely into his neck and shoulders, leaving the imprints of his teeth behind. No doubt there will be bruises in the morning, another way Enjolras is laying claim to him. 

“Look at you,” Enjolras practically croons into his ear. “Look at you sobbing and gasping for me. Look at how desperate you are to fuck yourself on me. How badly you need to be filled.”

Grantaire is almost sobbing, moving up and down as much as he can while Enjolras’ hands balance him, control him, while all their friends are watching, gazes hungry or content or both. 

“Show them all,” Enjolras whispers, breath hot against his ear. “Come for me, spill all over yourself without a hand on your worthless cock. Show them all you don’t need to be touched to get off because the only part of you that’s good for anything is your needy little hole.”

Grantaire’s hips stutter, his body clenches, and Enjolras arches off the chair, driving upwards to thrust into him as he bites down on Grantaire’s ear. Grantaire’s body goes boneless as he comes, his vision whiting out. His head falls back onto Enjolras’ shoulder, and he can feel Enjolras holding him, still fucking up into his pliant body, until he growls and comes as well, and all through it their friends are watching. 

Grantaire is eased onto the floor afterwards. Enjolras murmurs into his ear, “I can’t hold you up, R, so I’m going to set you down, all right? I’m coming right with you. I promise, I’m not going anywhere.”

He manages to nod, but it’s an effort. Everything is an effort. He is exhausted, and the world has gone hazy. But Enjolras is holding him. Enjolras’ arms are around him. 

Grantaire is dazed and sore and happy. 

“And now?” Combeferre asks.

“R?” Enjolras asks gently. “What do you need from our friends?”

“No more,” Grantaire mumbles. “Tired.”

Enjolras laughs. “I think you’ve worn them out as well. I just mean- would you like them to stay for aftercare, or should that just be the two of us?”

“Just you.”

“But you’re all right?” Jehan asks, the profound concern in his voice so different from his harsh words of earlier. 

“I’m good,” Grantaire manages to say. “Tired. Happy. Fucked senseless.” He smiles. “When can we do it again?”

Everyone laughs at that. 

“Soon,” Enjolras promises. “Maybe next time I’ll tie you over the table, make you stay nice and still while every one of them fucks your sweet throat. Maybe next time, once won’t be enough- I’ll let them all have a turn at you, and when they’re finished I’ll let them take a break. But not you, because you’ll be taking a good hard beating from me on your lovely ass, until they’re ready for another round with your slutty mouth.”

Grantaire groans. “Ange, stop. You’ll get me all turned on.”

Enjolras kisses his forehead. “I aim to please.”

They stay like that for a while, Enjolras sitting on the floor with Grantaire lying half in his arms, half on his lap. Some of their friends head out- Feuilly has work, and Joly and Bossuet have to get home to entertain their mistress. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, as is their habit, have fallen into friendly debate. Jehan is saying something to Bahorel.

Grantaire is rather insensible to it all. Enjolras has him, safe and sound. Enjolras has his strong arms around him, and he’s pressing gentle kisses to Grantaire’s temple and then murmuring gently in his ear, “You’re mine, R. No matter who you touch, who you please, you’ll always belong to me.”

Grantaire is drifting, pleasantly lost in a haze, sore and hurting and high and yet grounded by Enjolras’ touch. 

Later Enjolras will carefully help him dress and support him while they get home. He’ll get Grantaire water and food and tuck him into bed. He’ll tell him again and again how good he was and make sure none of his bruises or marks are real injuries.

But for right now, Grantaire doesn’t need that, doesn’t need to be carefully brought back to reality. Enjolras will help him with that, when he needs it. But for right now, he’s here. He’s been used—he’s been useful. He’s been taken and hurt and degraded in all the most filthy, perfect ways possible, and now he’s back with Enjolras, back where he belongs. Back with the wonderful man he belongs to. 

“What are you thinking?” Enjolras asks softly.

“Just. That I’m happy. I’m yours.”

“All mine. Mine to play with. Mine to use. Mine to share. But you’ll always come back to me.’

Grantaire hums happily and closes his eyes, relaxing into Enjolras’ arms.


End file.
